At times the fabric shows itself, as though up close— A linen swatch, scraps from a shelf of silk, or those
Long scarves made of the lightest wool, that with a touch Can wrap around, yet never pull or press. For such
Affinity invokes, like wings against the air, What elevates but does not cling to what is there.
Photo from Public Domain
Jared Carter’s most recent collection, The Land Itself, is from Monongahela Books in West Virginia. His Darkened Rooms of Summer: New and Selected Poems, with an introduction by Ted Kooser, was published by the University of Nebraska Press in 2014. A recipient of several literary awards and fellowships, Carter is from the state of Indiana in the U.S.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
MORELS
(In temperate regions of the northern hemisphere,
over seventy species of the highly prized
mushroom, Morchella, may be found)
This is the way, through apple trees
gone wild – on past
The ruined church, where branches seize
and catch – at last
An opening in the fence. We
come every spring
Along a path that gradually
bends ’round, to bring
Us back to what, still hidden here,
not far below,
Occasionally will reappear
in the patched snow.
SHORELINE
Then in late winter, after rain
has swept the sea,
And neither presence can explain
the mystery
Of sand unblemished, or of waves
that wander there,
Though nothing follows, nothing saves
those margins where
Half circles fade. As from a dream,
a ragged frond
Of seaweed surfaces, and gleams,
and then is gone.
Jared Carter’s most recent collection, The Land Itself, is from Monongahela Books in West Virginia. His Darkened Rooms of Summer: New and Selected Poems, with an introduction by Ted Kooser, was published by the University of Nebraska Press in 2014. A recipient of several literary awards and fellowships, Carter is from the state of Indiana in the U.S.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
SHADOW
Oh no, not so, and now you say
that it could not
Have possibly occurred that way,
the merest thought
It could be otherwise must be
dismissed. It was
Illusion of some sort -- to see
the moment pause,
That face appear. You knew how far
she'd come, but when
You failed to speak, the way things are
flowed back again.
Jared Carter’s most recent collection, The Land Itself, is from Monongahela Books in West Virginia. His Darkened Rooms of Summer: New and Selected Poems, with an introduction by Ted Kooser, was published by the University of Nebraska Press in 2014. A recipient of several literary awards and fellowships, Carter is from the state of Indiana in the U.S.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Visitant
What is that calling on the wind
that never seems a moment still?
That moves in darkness like a hand
of many fingers taken chill?
What is it seeking when it flows
about my head, and seems to wrest
All motion from my heart, as though
I still had something to confess?
How can it be it knows my crime –
this troubled whistling in the air?
'Tis true, I left her long behind,
but this is dark, and she was fair.
(First published in The New Formalist)
Snow
At every hand there are moments we
cannot quite grasp or understand. Free
to decide, to interpret, we watch rain
streaking down the window, the drain
emptying, leaves blown by a cold wind.
At least we sense a continuity in
such falling away. But not with snow.
It is forgetfulness, what does not know,
has nothing to remember in the first place.
Its purpose is to cover, to leave no trace
of anything. Whatever was there before –
the worn broom leaned against the door
and almost buried now, the pile of brick,
the bushel basket filling up with thick,
gathering whiteness, half sunk in a drift –
all these things are lost in the slow sift
of the snow's falling. Now someone asks
if you can remember – such a simple task –
the time before you were born. Of course
you cannot, nor can I. Snow is the horse
that would never dream of running away,
that plods on, pulling the empty sleigh
while the tracks behind it fill, and soon
everything is smooth again. No moon,
no stars, to guide your way. No light.
Climb up, get in. Be drawn into the night.
(First published in A Dance in the Street)
School of Ragtime, Exercise No. 6
Saw you first one April day
king, queen, sun, moon
Whistled you outside to play
right, left, fork, spoon
Took you down to the river’s edge
penny candy, paper doll
Showed you bullheads under the ledge
butterfingers, jackstone ball
Say goodbye to your last dime
up, down, cat, dog
Gonna rag that tune this time
leaf, tree, axe, log
(First published in The Devil's Millhopper)
Jared Carter’s most recent collection, The Land Itself, is from Monongahela Books in West Virginia. His Darkened Rooms of Summer: New and Selected Poems, with an introduction by Ted Kooser, was published by the University of Nebraska Press in 2014. A recipient of several literary awards and fellowships, Carter is from the state of Indiana in the U.S.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Borderless 